


when i think of you

by tonytonesphoneroo5000



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Gift Fic, Superheroes, Vampirism, dream fic, vague smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 18:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonytonesphoneroo5000/pseuds/tonytonesphoneroo5000
Summary: “I don’t…A real vampire?”Sweetheart-Saoirse-nods, the red curls of her wig bouncing. Emily hates herself for finding it adorable, for her gaze drifting to the delicate wings of Saoirse’s collarbones just above the ruffled collar of her dress. She swings her bat up to rest on her shoulder and clears her throat, focusing. “Those don’t exist.”





	when i think of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mx_Carter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Carter/gifts).



> hey babe so i finally finished your christmas gift...you know, weeks after your birthday and months after christmas. i'm sorry! let me know what you want for a birthday gift. hope i fit the parameters!  
> i did take the easy way out with the ending...i couldn't seem to figure out how this fit in canon.   
> i couldn't help but write our girls. you know how much i love them. soz!

“I don’t…A real vampire?”  
Sweetheart-Saoirse-nods, the red curls of her wig bouncing. Emily hates herself for finding it adorable, for her gaze drifting to the delicate wings of Saoirse’s collarbones just above the ruffled collar of her dress. She swings her bat up to rest on her shoulder and clears her throat, focusing. “Those don’t exist.” 

Saoirse laughs, high and dainty, waving Emily’s denial away. “Oh, you adorable little thing. Why shouldn’t they?”

Emily opens her mouth to argue, but she woke up one morning with her abilities and no reason behind them, so she supposes anything is possible. She knows there’s no way Saoirse can see her behind the reflective surface of her helmet, but their eyes meet anyway, Saoirse’s wide and impossibly blue, Emily’s as dark brown as her ma’s.

“You were really doing something good?” she asks suspiciously, looking to where the guy who Saoirse was fighting is a smoking pile of dust, having gone up in flames as soon as Sorcha stabbed him through the heart with that vicious strength she usually conceals. 

“I was, love. Can’t have someone going around my bloody town making it, well…bloodier.” Emily allows herself a smile as Saoirse breaks into peals of laughter, reaching a hand out for Emily to help her up, imperious as any princess. 

“Look, I don’t…” Emily sighs, hauling her to her feet, no longer surprised by how light she is. She knows how much power Saoirse can pack behind a punch when she wants to, has had the broken jaw to prove it. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Doing what, love?” 

“Would you stop _calling_ me that?” Emily snaps as they head out of the alley and into the streets, grateful that it’s dark enough for no one to notice that Sweetheart and Space Out are co-existing peacefully for once, Saoirse humming as she trails behind her. 

“No,” is Saoirse’s immediate response, trying to take Emily’s hand. She yanks it out of reach, ignoring the tingling of her fingers.

“I can’t believe I’m taking you with me,” she continues, grateful that at least her apartment is close. She only moved out a year ago-full time superheroing takes up a lot of time, too much to get a real job, but now that she’s on the official heroes list, the Coalition of Crime-Fighters is willing to pay her bills. Selling out to the man has done her good. Still, she misses her moms. 

“Oh, we’re going to your place!” Saoirse exclaims, delighted, as they climb Emily’s steps. 

She freezes in place, turns to stare. Saoirse is biting her lip, eyes downcast, but Emily has seen that fake look of guilt at many trials before. It doesn’t fool her anymore. “You knew where I _live?_ For how long?”

“Oh, always, dear. Why, I might want to drop by sometime, meet the family, drink tea.” Emily has seen Saoirse’s excuse for tea-bodies slumped in their seats, cracked tea cups, Sweetheart laughing over it all with a packet of arsenic powder in her hands.

Bile rises in Emily’s throat. “Don’t you _ever_ …” She can’t even finish the sentence, has an image of her moms in her head, victims of Sweetheart’s greatest crime-the total destruction of her nemesis. 

Saoirse’s ever present smile slips, her eyes hardening. It’s weird that it’s when the persona falls that Emily finds her the most beautiful, gets lost in the roundness of her cheeks, the curve of her lips in an honest smirk. She says something in Gaelic that Emily can’t understand, then, “You can trust me, Emily. I would never.” 

For some reason, Emily believes her (maybe it’s the first ever use of her real name between Saoirse’s lips?) and opens the door with a jiggle of the handle to stop it from sticking. Saoirse stays in the doorway, a smile on her face again, but not stepping inside. “What are you waiting for? Come in,” Emily invites, and Saoirse shakes herself, puts a foot over the threshold. 

“Just taking in the majesty,” she says, and oddly enough she sounds sincere.   
+  
“So, uh, this is my place,” Emily says, leading Saoirse further inside, to where her lumpy couch is, where her pet Gecko, Ozymandias, watches them before blinking once, slowly, and turning away with disinterest. 

“It’s lovely,” Saoirse says cheerfully, clasping her hands together like she’s overcome with joy. 

“Right…” Emily says; she’s living full time off the Coalition of Crime-Fighters, but she’s not anyone important, or powerful enough that they’re scared and willing to do anything to keep her happy. She knows most of her furniture is ratty, bought second-hand, but it’s _hers_. That matters most. 

“I mean it, dear,” Saoirse says, and when Emily turns around she could swear Saoirse is focused on her neck, where her pulse beats faster than usual.

“I…Sweetheart…What?” Emily mumbles, feeling stuck in place as Saoirse drifts towards her, lifts a hand to wrap it around the nape of Emily’s neck. She’s smirking, self-satisfied. Her lips are very red, swollen, warm as they press once over Emily’s pulse, up her jaw, to her mouth where their lips meet, Saoirse sucking on her bottom lip, nipping. 

She draws blood and licks it away, staining her unnaturally white teeth. “You knew what you wanted the second you invited me in here,” Saoirse whispers against her ear, pushing Emily onto her own couch, settling between her legs. “You know what I am.” 

“A monster,” Emily blurts out even as her hand slides over Saoirse’s bald head, fingers rubbing over the scars there. 

“A monster,” Saoirse confirms, dipping her head to kiss Emily’s inner thigh, bare under her skirt, her tights suddenly around her ankles. “A parasite. I’ll take everything from you and you’ll _love_ me for it.”

Her teeth sink in right over Emily’s femoral artery, as Emily scrabbles to get away or get closer, arousal curling in her stomach while Saoirse drinks deep, looks up at Emily and licks over the front of her underwear, giggles cutely when Emily arches.

“Please…” she says weakly, and Saoirse tangles their fingers together over Emily’s stomach, presses another kiss in the same place, staining Emily’s underwear with blood.

“You don’t even know what you want from me, do you, dearest?” she teases as Emily’s vision fades in and out, getting bleary, her blood gushing onto Saoirse’s perfectly pressed white crinoline skirt. 

The woman staring back at her has blood smeared over her mouth, down her throat and to her chest where her heart sits, empty and exposed. Saoirse rips it out, drops it in Emily’s lap, and presses an achingly gentle kiss to where Emily wants her mouth most. She opens her mouth to say something else, and Emily wakes with a start.   
+  
+  
+  
She’s lying on the couch in her apartment, safe and alone, Ozymandias still watching her with his goggle eyes. Blinking at the ceiling for a few seconds, Emily groans, scrubbing a hand over her eyes. Her thigh aches where Saoirse’s teeth were in the dream, her boxers wet and sticky. She wishes this was the first time she had a dream like that about Saoirse. 

“I fucking _hate_ that Irish bitch,” Emily grumbles, knowing she doesn’t really mean it and hating herself for that, too.

She gets to her feet, turning off the reruns of Full House that must’ve been playing since before she fell asleep, exhausted after a long day of running after the Paper-Chaser, who mostly just gets really enthusiastic about stealing valuable documents and leaves Emily with a lot of paper cuts. 

She’s safe, she reminds herself, feeling shaky as she opens the door to her bedroom, flicks the light on and falls into bed. Sweetheart _doesn’t_ know where Emily lives, and she certainly isn’t a vampire. The rest of it…that’s just dream speak. Just Emily’s brain being weird. She doesn’t care about Sweetheart. She doesn’t want her. She _doesn’t_. Unsettled, Emily rolls over and falls into uneasy sleep.

 

Miles away, at Robert Hope Psychiatric Hospital, Saoirse is laughing, and she doesn’t know why.


End file.
